FUCK IT, FAIR PLAY TO YOUSE.
I get down tae my dad’s tae gloat, but the auld Weedgie Hun bastard is in his bed pretending tae be asleep, and just in case he isnae kidding, I dinnae want tae wake him. I write ‘GGTTH’ on a bit ay paper and pin it oan the kitchen board for him tae see. I cannae sit here though; I’m back oot in Leith, and hooking up wi the boys again, starting at the Vine.
Sick Boy and I are hammering the ching, with loads ay others. As the night tumbles on uproariously, a sea ay faces slides by as if on a carousel; some long forgotten, others half remembered, more eagerly rejoiced with in an endless stream of bonhomie. Ah decide tae get Begbie while he’s in a good mood and gie it one last shot, before ah pit Sick Boy’s plan intae action. — That money, Frank, just let ays gie it tae ye. Ah need tae.
— We’ve discussed this, he sais, and his eyes are fucking glacial, cutting through my intoxication. I’d thought he’d forgotten how tae dae that stare. And I certainly neglected to recall how it freezes ma soul. — The answer is always gaunny be the same. I dinnae want tae hear about it again. Ever. Right?
— Fair enough, I say, thinking: well, I gave the cunt his chance. Now I’m gaunny have tae look at him, Sick Boy and Spud, as well as myself, every fucking day, because those Leith Heads will be mine. — The next words you’ll hear from me are, and I stand up and burst into song: — WE’VE GOT McGINN, SUPER JOHN McGINN, I DINNAE FUCKIN THINK YOU UNDERSTAND…
Franco smiles indulgently, but doesnae join in. He seldom did fitba songs. But Sick Boy duets with gusto, and we share an emotional embrace, as the ditty is taken up for the millionth time around the bar. — Everything you’ve ever done that’s fucked me over, I forgive you, he contends, wired tae fuck. — I wouldnae have missed these moments for anything. We are lucky, he turns tae Franco, — lucky tae be fae Leith, the greatest fucking place in the world!
Franco responds tae a speech he would have been euphoric tae hear fae Sick Boy’s lips years ago (but which would never have been made) wi only a minimal shrug. Life is so fucking bizarre. The ways we stay the same, the ways we change. Fuck me: it’s been a roller coaster couple of weeks. Seeing Spud in a makeshift operating theatre with his insides hingin oot, having one ay his kidneys removed by Sick Boy and Mikey Forrester, was crazy, but naewhere near as mind-blowing and unexpected as watching Hibs win the Scottish Cup at Hampden. We head to Junction Street, and the Fit ay the Walk, moving back up towards toon. We must have hit every bar in Leith. Begbie, without either punching a soul or necking a drink, lasts until nearly 2 a.m. before he jumps a cab tae his sister’s place.
We carry on, then I call the car tae pick ays up at the Fit ay the Walk, which is mair mobbed than ah’ve ever seen it, and the atmosphere is incredible. It’s way past just a Cup win; it feels like some magical catharsis for a whole community that’s been carrying an invisible injury. I cannae believe the enormous psychological burden that’s been lifted offay me, as I didnae think I’d gied much ay a fuck aboot Hibs or fitba for years. Ah suppose it’s aboot who you are and where ye come fae, and once you’ve made that emotional investment, it might lie dormant, but it never goes and it impacts on the rest of your life. I feel beyond fucking brilliant and spiritually connected to every Hibby, including this car-hire driver whom I’ve never set eyes on in ma puff before the day. But I really need tae kip cause the drugs are running doon and exhaustion is banging at the door ay this incredible high, and he’s droning on about the game, euphorically slapping the roof ay the cab and tooting his horn intae the empty night, as we storm doon the deserted A1.
Ah’m comatose as I get on the plane, and despite the revelry ay the package-holiday mobs around ays, a deep torpor descends on me. Three hours later I’m rolling off, crusty-eyed, beak both runny and blocked, Carl meeting ays at the magic island’s airport, having jumped off the Gatwick flight an hour earlier.
— Where’s the car? I groggily ask.
— Fuck the car: I’ve drinks set up for us in the bar.
— I’ve been up aw night, mate, ah need tae git some fuckin kip. Ah went intae this coma oan the flight and –
— Fuck your kip. Ye just won the Cup, ya daft cunt. One hundred and fourteen years! Carl is caught between an abject despair and a phantom elation that he cannae quite figure oot. But he tries. — I hate you bastards and it’s the strangest day ay ma life, but even ah want tae mark it. The stick ah’ve gied you, wi the 5–1, ye deserve it.
Ah think aboot the 7–0 stuff ah gied ma brother Billy, and Keezbo, ma poor auld buddy fae the Fort. Ah realise that it probably never means as much tae them as it does tae you. It just worries me tae think that they thought ah wis just some kind ay dull, retarded simpleton, like ah thought ay Carl. Still, the auld man is fucking getting it tight later!
We head tae the bar. It takes ays two beers and a couple ay lines ay ching, but ah dinnae feel fatigued any mair.
— Thanks for this, mate, ah tell him. — It was what I needed, and it’ll keep me awake long enough tae get through your gig – you’re going to kill it, just like you did in Berlin.
— Aw down tae you, Mark, he says with glassy-eyed emotion, squeezing ma shoodir, — you believed in me when I had stopped believing in myself.
— Conrad might need some therapy though!
— A slap across the chops will be good for the arrogant wanker. Now here, one for the car, he says, ordering up two half-pint glesses ay neat vodka.
— Ah cannae drink this… ah protest, knowin that’s exactly what ah will dae.
— Fuck off, ya Hobo lightweight. One hundred and fourteen years!
We stagger oot tae the motor, the sun blinding. The boy isn’t too happy about being kept waiting, telling us he’s another job on, obviously setting us up for the bung I’ll gie him. Carl is peeving the neat voddy effortlessly. This is suicide drinking, there’s fuck all whatsoever social about it. — Mate, the gig’s in a bit. Maybe you want to ease up.
— It’s been eight fucking years since I was last in Ibiza. I used tae be here every summer. And I’m drowning my sorrows. The Hobos won the cup. This changes ma fucking life as much as it does yours. He shakes his head in despair. — When ah wis young, even though ah wis surrounded by Jambos, aw my mates were Hibbies; the Birrells, Juice Terry… now my manager. What the fuck is going on here?
— I’ll turn you yet, mate. Leave the dark side, Luke.
— Fuck off, not a chance…
It’s blinding in the sun and I’m stuck with that albino Jambo vampire cunt, each shaft ay light seeming tae go through him as if he’s translucent. I can practically see all the veins and arteries in his face and neck. It’s a forty-minute trip and I’m wired for every fuckin second ay it. By the time we get tae the hotel, I want tae crash. – I need tae sleep.
Carl produces the bag ay coke. — You just need another wee livener is aw.
So we go up tae the hotel’s rooftop bar. It’s a predictably beautiful day. Cloudless and hot, but fresh. No sooner is the gak fighting through a plug of mucous tae get up ma Vespa, when the phone rings and Emily pops onto caller ID. In my gut: an ominous bolt of something wrong as I pick up. — Sweetheart!
— I’ll give ya fucking sweetheart, a male cockney voice grates back at ays. Mickey. Her dad. — My little gel was left waiting at the airport. You call that fucking management? Cos I don’t call that fucking management!
Shit.
— Mickey… you’re in Ibiza?
— I jumped on a flight from the Canaries to surprise her. Just as farking well I did, innit?